Silhouette
by LaraLee88
Summary: Severus Snape has been granted release from St. Mungo's following a lengthy recovery, but it is with one simple condition.
1. Prologue

**Characters are property of J.K Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.**

* * *

><p><strong>Silhouette<strong>

**Prologue**

There was another fly in his room.

The insect had not yet been seen, but it could be heard well enough. The faint drone of its tiny wings disrupted his train of thought and his reading. Severus Snape pushed himself up in his seat with a wince. Convalescence had not been kind to him, and he would be the first to admit that unfortunate fact. He had only turned thirty-nine a few weeks prior, but he felt like a man stretched far beyond his years.

Of course hours of sitting in the same chair would do that to a person, but he would have much rather dealt with the troublesome pain in his back than the sad state of life that existed beyond his closed door. Severus rarely left the confines of his room, and when he did it was after the halls had gone still. He liked it best when he was surrounded by silence instead of madness, when he could quietly slip away unnoticed for a moment or two.

After all, the Dangerous Dai Llewllyn Ward of St. Mungo's was not a pleasant place, least of all when its patients were awake. The cold stone walls amplified the screams that echoed down the long corridors. When Severus had finally regained awareness of his surroundings, those screams had set the hair on his arms on end and reminded him of countless he had heard before. Over time, he had learned to tolerate the shouts and shrieks that would taper off into pitiful cries, but he knew he would never get used to them. In the meantime, and on particularly breezy nights such as the one currently beyond the hospital walls, he settled for leaving the only window in his room slightly ajar, allowing in the sounds of London and the occasional fly.

The current fly in question had found its way inside through that same window and could not seem to retrace its path. It bounced stupidly across the windowpane in search of an escape. Severus contemplated the ignorant thing as it moved back and forth as though it was testing the glass for weakness. It would stop a moment to scuttle a few inches up or down only to hurl itself moments later at the window almost as if it intended to put itself out of misery. It was an oddly sad spectacle, but once upon a time it would have angered him. In the earlier days of his recovery, Severus would have smashed it with his fist out of a fit of black, poisonous jealousy more than annoyance. The insect would eventually find its way back out into the world, and he would still be trapped, powerless to leave the sterile walls of St. Mungo's.

It was all monumentally unfair in his eyes, but he had learned to deal with it as he had everything else. He had smashed a fair few flies—and hospital staff, though that was much more in a verbal sense than physical— in his time at St. Mungo's, which was almost well-behind him now, and rightfully so. The road had been difficult, and to say otherwise would have been an obvious lie.

Severus could scarcely remember the days shortly after he had been found in the Shrieking Shack by a third year Hufflepuff student, whose name to this very day he could not recall. He vaguely remembered, almost as if the entire experience had been a dream gone fuzzy with age, a set of startled blue eyes staring down at him and the wand that trembled just outside his field of vision before the world disappeared.

The girl, that much he knew, had hexed him to prevent another great escape—as if the gaping hole in his neck and the puddle of blood fanning out around his head would not have seen to the job—and had set off to find an Auror. By the time she had returned, a throng of Ministry officials in tow, Severus was hardly lucid, dreaming of grotesquely-fanged snakes and a set of red eyes that he could not escape. Another fifteen minutes, he had been told, and he would have suffocated on the fluid that was beginning to well in his lungs.

At first, he thought it would have been easier to die, to leave it all behind, but the fates, as they most often did, paid no mind to what was easy. Severus shifted in his chair, though he knew his discomfort did not fall to the standard issue infirmary furniture this time. It was his earlier memories, and in times such as these, when they somehow managed to weasel their way into the present, that he had no other choice but to face them.

"Do you know that I would have envied you not so long ago?" he told the fly, as if talking to an old friend. The insect crashed into the window again.

Harry Potter, through the guise of Kingsley Shacklebolt, had put a quick stop to the talk of sending him straight to Azkaban, insisting that all was not as it seemed. A team of Aurors had Apparated him directly St. Mungo's after that, and after he woke, two armed wizards stood outside his door for nearly two months.

"_It is for your safety," _Shacklebolt had said to him, though Severus knew they would leave the moment his innocence had been proven. Until that day came, however, he was to be watched around the clock like a child prone to misbehaving. It was in those very early days that Severus had developed a habit of naming the flies unfortunate enough to find their way to his room after Potter or Kingsley or the Dark Lord, but that soon lost its appeal. Killing the idea of something proved to be far more tedious and a lot less rewarding than he had first imagined.

Severus continued to watch the fly as it moved slowly and uneasily toward the edge of the glass, as if it thought one wrong move would cause it to vanish. The similarity was almost painful. _We're more alike, you and I, than I care to admit,_ he thought.

There had been a time when Severus Snape was uncertain of moving forward, fearful of that one wrong move that could bring on a flood of setbacks. It never came, of course, but that was thanks in large part to his Healer. Augusta Barnes had been his primary caregiver and the resident Healer of the Dangerous Dai Llewllyn Ward since he arrived the previous May, and Severus disliked her from the beginning. As fearless as she was blunt, Augusta Barnes told him precisely how it was from the moment he laid eyes on her, some four months after he had arrived.

He remembered that day much more clearly than most, though not because he had opened his eyes for the first time in seventeen weeks, but because that was the day she had barged into his room without so much as an introduction to tell him that he would never be able to leave.

_The damage is far too extensive_, she had said, in a tone he found infuriatingly indifferent. _People don't walk away from this, Severus, and it's best you prepare yourself for the reality of the situation_.

At first he believed she carried all the kindheartedness of a Hungarian Horntail, and worked with the same sort of deadly efficiency. Severus had not known it then, and was likely not to have cared if the truth was told, but she had given him exactly what he needed: A harsh dose of honesty and someone to prove wrong.

Looking back, Severus found it hard to resent Augusta even if she had been overly severe with him. She saw in him, more clearly than most, a streak of self-loathing and apathy that, if left alone, would fester into something she could not cure. While she saw the worst in him, she also had sense enough of his potential, and thus chose to be stern, at times even overbearing. Severus could easily recall how he had fought her every step of the way, though that was more out of his own nature than her methods.

Those who did know Severus Snape knew how hard it was to simply get to know him considering he was reserved, mistrustful of nearly every one, and downright unfriendly out of habit. Luckily, Augusta was equally indifferent to all three of those traits and prone to fits of stubbornness that rivaled any mule. More dumbfounding, though, was that he found it a challenge to rattle her. As a result, they fought hard and often, but it had been for the best, and Severus knew that fully now. She had pushed him and, in turn, he had pushed himself, digging into the reserve of stoic resourcefulness he thought had been lost.

The recovery had been miserable, even when Augusta was not barking in his ear every time he turned around. More than that, however, it felt as though it spanned the ages despite only taking a little less than nine months to reach its conclusion. When he regained feeling in his legs—almost three months after waking—he stood, though not without aid and agony. When he could move his feet he took small, lumbering steps, ignoring the traitorous tears that welled in his eyes each time his feet fell upon the floor. When he could step without tiring and support his own weight, he walked until he had blisters on his feet and stitches in his sides.

The fly on the window suddenly caught his attention again as it dashed in the opposite direction of its only means of escape, and at that Severus nearly felt compelled to leave his chair to give the dull creature the guiding hand it desperately needed. It seemed only right to add another link to the chain of empathy; God knew a few had been added in his name by the Healer's hands.

Augusta Barnes had been there every step of the way, tolerated every single harsh word he flung at her or himself, and on those occasions when he had stumbled slightly, figuratively or literally, she had been there to hoist him back to feet and saw to it that he continued down the road to his recovery. Severus had never thanked her for any of it, and she had never expected him to. Regardless of that, the appreciation was still there, hidden in the occasional good-natured barb they would exchange or the ghosts of smiles that they would pretend not to see on each other's faces.

Severus had never considered her a friend, but rather the maternal figure Eileen Snape could have been had the world and his father been kinder. Severus might have admitted, had he and Augusta found themselves in different circumstances and with a different association entirely, that he admired the Healer for her tenacity and her guile simply because they were lost to his mother. This fact was never mentioned to Augusta or anyone else, and it would remain unsaid as long as he had anything to do with it, secretly providing solace as needed.

Pushing that thought aside, Severus went back to the book in his hands, casually casting a sideways glance at the fly when its noise grew tiresome or the words on the page no longer held his attention. This was the sort of game he played himself every night, as he dolefully went through the steps of his routine. His opinions had been different in the beginning, though. It had not been hard to endure the routine he had developed during his extended stay, and, at one point and on a good day, he would have went as far as to say he had welcomed it gladly given the turbulent existence he had managed to escape by the skin of his teeth.

Now, however, with his freedom a little less than fourteen hours from fruition, Severus found the wait monotonous and, above all else, mind-numbing. He had already packed what little belongings he had collected over his nine month stay; a hospital-issue toothbrush, seven rotations of clothing, a few mediocre books purchased from the visitors' shop, a bit of stationery and ink, and small photograph that Augusta had taken of him in secret the first day he stepped outside the hospitals walls since arriving. It was the only thing he owned that was not completely anonymous aside from the boots he had been able to salvage.

Having never truly cared for the sentimental value of things, Severus had almost thrown the photograph away. The image was a simple one, only his silhouette against the fading light as he watched the sun recede on a brisk twilight four months prior. He was sitting upon the ground, his face upturned to the remaining light, staring out into a cloudless, pale, lilac sky. One would have thought, after giving the photograph a cursory glance that it was ordinary, that the form in the background had been carved from stone, unmoving and unchanging. It was not until Severus moved, his shoulders slumping suddenly as he exhaled and his head moving to his hands, that the magic of the photograph was revealed.

Severus had always viewed that one simple movement as a captured sign of weakness, a reminder of how low he had sunk, but Augusta was quick to remind him that it represented far more than that. She had not said it aloud—she never did—but had rather shared her thoughts with a single sentence written upon the back in her swooping handwriting: _Keep your face to the sun and you will never see the shadows*._

Her words had struck him as particularly profound—she did have a subtle way of encouraging him to see things far less cynically, though he would be loathe to admit it—and for that reason alone he kept it.

The photograph, as well as the rest of the items, was locked away in a small, black trunk that sat at the foot of his bed, and he would often catch himself looking to it, as if to make sure it was not just a figment of his imagination. Even then a smile began to tug at his lips at the prospect, and Severus turned in his chair to give it a proper look. It was not a dream. It was not something he had made up out of boredom or desperation. He was truly leaving, and it was for good. It was a consoling thought, and one that was dashed away far too soon by the familiar sound of knuckles tapping upon the outside of his closed door.

Severus turned his head at the knock, divrting his attention from the black trunk. It was a wonder the staff of St. Mungo's bothered with the customary knocking etiquette. Whether an occupant was decent or not, Healers and Mediwizards alike would barge in with their closed fist still going for the door.

Broad shouldered and short, a young Mediwizard poked his head in his room as he rapped on the door a second time. Severus recognized the wizard as Thomm Curwood, the lumpy shadow that fell behind Augusta. He was her errand boy, and would often be sent in her place if she found it unnecessary or too tiresome to speak to Severus directly.

Curwood shuffled into the room looking anxious, as if he had selected the short stick in some perverse game of whisper down the lane. Severus pretended to go back to the words printed across the book in his lap, but cast a sideways look in his visitor's direction. The wizard was shifting his weight from foot to foot, and after a moment, he cleared his throat.

Severus looked up, deliberately this time, and sighed. If one thing was known of the Mediwizard, it was his lack of nerve. Some called it politeness, but the truth of the matter was that he was as delicate as a field mouse. "What is it, Curwood?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening," Thomm said, his tone painfully adenoidal, "but I have something for you, sir."

Severus closed the long-forgotten book in his hand with an abrupt snap, and the Mediwizard tried to hide the fact that he nearly jumped out of his skin. "From whom?"

"Augusta, sir." Curwood produced a parcel of parchments from under his arm and placed them on the bedside table. "Seeing as that tonight is your last night at St. Mungo's, she wanted you to be prepared to leave right after your meeting tomorrow. Everything in the packet there is just the customary documents you'll need to complete before Healer Barnes can release you from her care."

_Meeting? This is news. _Severus knew his chances of escaping an impromptu meeting were little and less, but he felt as though he should at least give it an honest try. "That's funny, I was under the impression that I would be free to go once you lot had your paperwork." He paused to appreciate the queasy look that had flashed across Curwood's face. "What's the purpose of the meeting? I hardly think Augusta believes me to be one for goodbyes."

"She didn't say, sir." Thomm picked at invisible lint on his sleeve, expertly dodging the question. "However, she did mention that she'd fetch you personally in the morning."

That was met by silence and a scowl. Severus stood, tossing his book in the chair as he walked toward the stack of parchments sitting atop the night stand. Curwood pinched his bottom lip between his teeth and made a studied effort to not retreat from the room as he advanced. It did not go unnoticed how his stumpy, fat fingers lingered on the door latch, but Severus found no pleasure in his unease. The parchments made sure of that.

The stack of wheat-coloured documents was nearly an inch thick and bound at the top with three sturdy prong fasteners. By the look of the pile, it would take a long while to sort through, read, and sign every piece of parchment the hospital deemed necessary to grant release. Severus thumbed through the first few sheets of the bureaucratic red tape, irritated. The clock on the night table only read a quarter past seven, more than enough time to complete the signing given his eagerness to be rid of the place, but that fact aside, Severus was determined to repay Thomm for his earlier lack of disclosure.

"Was it Augusta," Severus asked, picking up the parchments and pointing them at the Mediwizard to punctuate the words, "or perhaps you that thought I had somehow mastered the skill of osmosis?"

Thomm made a sour face and took a solid step back out of reflex. "Sir?"

"How am I to properly see to all of these tonight?" Severus gestured to the clock sitting upon the night stand, his lips set in a thin, grim line. "I would like to sleep sometime tonight, despite what either of you believe."

"The sheets that require your signature are marked for your convenience. There aren't many," Thomm finished lamely. He offered a weak smile, though his eyes were ripe with nervous misgiving, like someone who had found themselves face to face with a venomous snake keen to strike. "Should you need assistance with anything at all, I would be more than happy to help you."

"I'm sure you would, but unless you can add hours to the day, I'm afraid your usefulness has run its course." The parchments hit the tabletop with an emphatic _whack_, and Severus crossed his arms over his chest, his expression one of deliberate annoyance. "Now if we're finished here, I have work to do."

Thomm opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead, the stout wizard grimaced and gave a sheepish bow, quickly turning for the door. Unfortunately it was far too quickly. The heel of his shoe caught on the tail-end of his robes, and Curwood stumbled, reaching desperately for the doorjamb to keep from falling face-first out into the hall. The Mediwizard stared back at Severus once he gained his footing, his forehead covered in a light sheen of nervous sweat and meek smile on his face.

This was met with more silence and a glare that rivaled the last, and Severus thought Curwood might have mumbled something oddly familiar to 'good evening' as he scuttled through the door, but the hurried cadence of his voice made it sound more along the lines of 'good riddance.' He found, for the first time in quite a long time, that he was inclined to agree with the oaf.

Severus closed the door, locked it for good measure, and set to tending to the documents. It would be a tedious endeavor, and one that would almost certainly intensify the dull thrum of tension building behind his eyes, especially considering the fact he would be without the aid of his wand. Wands belonging to patients in the Dangerous Dai Llewllyn Ward were kept under lock and key as a precaution, even for those who were not a danger to themselves or others.

He had been tempted to ask Curwood for authorization, but decided the amount of hovering and satisfaction on Thomm's part would far exceed his own benefit. _I shall have to ask for a Calming Draught before this is over_,Severus thought as he retrieved the inkwell and quill from the trunk and set to preparing the makeshift workspace.

The hospital room was without a proper desk and chair, which meant he would be using the bedside table so long as his neck could tolerate the strain— and he had a few solid hours of paperwork ahead of him if he gave each page a thorough reading. From flipping through the first dozen sheets or so Severus could see there were parchments detailing the discharge policies, parchments detailing the release of his personal effects, parchments explaining liabilities falling to both the patient and the facility.

Severus pulled the wingback chair up to the small table and sat down with a sigh. The fly, which he had forgotten all about, came to join him, sitting atop the mouth of the generic ink well. He gave the insect a narrow, assessing look and decided the stupid thing actually seemed to be tittering at him, with its two front legs rubbing together in some obscene clap.

He nearly smashed it then, envy and annoyance flaring, but chose to swat at it instead. "Away with you."

The fly shot away in a panic, making a frantic, erratic line toward the window. Apparently that was all it needed to remember how it had arrived inside in the first place. It slipped through the crack and was carried off by the brisk evening wind, leaving him behind just as all the rest before it had.

* * *

><p>* Is a variation of a quote from Helen Keller:<em> "<em>_Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see a shadow."_

**Author's Notes:** Can I just say how _good_ it feels to finally post something again?! Seriously, I am ashamed of myself for going so long without posting, but real life, in all of its glory, had sank it's teeth into my backside and refused to let go for nearly six months. I've managed to fight it off long enough to bring you the beginning of a new story that is nearly complete. I was going to wait and post the story in its entirety when I finished it, but I have missed fan fiction and the people who read it terribly. That said, updates will occur once a month, and will be toward the end of the month most likely. Of Course, as I sit here and type this, I know real life is lurking in the shadows, and it will find me like the hell hound it is, and so I'll just throw out there that this time line is tentative. This story will see its end, I just ask for your patience as it happens.

This story is written for Thorned Huntress, who has listened to me whine and complain about a great number of things. I hope you enjoy it. Meladara acted as my second pair of eyes for this story, and I could not have done this without her.


	2. Chapter I

**Characters are property of J.K Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.**

* * *

><p><strong>Silhouette<strong>

**Chapter I**

Severus Snape was snoring, and rather loudly at that.

He had fallen asleep sitting upright in the wing-back chair with one leg slung over the armrest and his head pressed into the side of one of the wings. Sleep came for him sometime near the end of the stack of parchments and, after almost six hours of sound sleep, he still held the quill in one hand, as if the Sandman had crept up and caught him unawares. The tine of the quill had come to rest in a most unfortunate spot on the leg of his trousers—the same pair he had been wearing the day before—and a giant blot of ink had managed to seep onto the grey fabric mid thigh.

Severus made a drowsy, indistinguishable noise and swung his other leg over the arm of the chair in a miserable attempt to find some comfort, but surprisingly he did not wake. There had been a time in his life when Severus held a bit of contempt for those who slept easily, for those who closed their eyes and drifted off into their dreams only to wake again rested. He often fell into his nightmares, and would wake during the early hours of the morning with a racing pulse and sweat on his brow.

The dreams were particularly horrible shortly after he regained consciousness, enough so to be dubbed fully-fledged night terrors, and in those days he and his Healer had turned to potions to keep him under. Even sedated, he never woke up feeling refreshed or rested, but rather dragged himself out of dreams each morning feeling half-dead only to find no relief.

He had been quick to blame his episodes on the snake venom still circulating in his system, a natural bodily response to the toxin, but his Healer quickly informed him otherwise. She had not exactly called him mad or depressed, not directly of course, but she had used the Muggle term "post traumatic stress" when she had diagnosed his condition.

"_What you've experienced is nothing short of traumatic, and it has compromised your ability to cope_," Augusta had told him. "Y_ou have unconsciously buried what has haunted you, and you've managed to survive remarkably intact despite it all. You can no longer do that, Severus. You can no longer do that and hope to heal let alone carry on a normal life_. "

Facing his demons, his shame, and his guilt proved to be a challenge, but eventually, sleep came almost every night and lasted longer with few interruptions. As someone who had once had trouble going under with even the strongest sleeping aides, Severus soon discovered that he could fall asleep almost anywhere when his mind was clear.

Severus took a deep breath, wrapping his arms around his torso. He had left the window cracked, and the room carried a chilly bite. His head rested at an odd angle on his shoulder. He still did not stir even though his neck was craned in such a manner that would leave him feeling stiff when he finally woke, but rather curled into himself as much as the modest sized chair would allow. His rest was short-lived, however, as the first knocks sounded from beyond the closed door.

They were faint at first, just a few light raps with the knuckles, but they quickly grew louder and more defined. Though Severus was sound asleep, he was also a very light sleeper, prone to waking up at just the slightest outside commotion. He jolted upright in a mess of tangled limbs at the second forceful smack upon the door, and his feet kicked the nightstand, sending his neat stack of parchments to floor. The parchments scattered everywhere, some going under the bed, others sliding across the tiled floor.

"Oh for God's sake! Hold on, would you?!"

Severus straightened the parchments he could quickly gather as best as he could, and as the rapping on the door intensified, so did his agitation. He slammed the parchments he had managed to collect back on the night table only to have gravity pull them down again as he turned for the door.

"I said hold on!" he snapped just as the door swung open to reveal his Healer standing on the other side.

When she saw him, her smile vanished. "Well, good morning to you, too."

Augusta Barnes was a short-haired, hefty-breasted witch of seventy-five or so years, and always looked as though she was in a state of perpetual contemplation. The glasses she wore were either perched on the end of her narrow nose or pushed up in the spiky salt and pepper hair atop her head. Despite her appearance and the opinions Severus had once held for her, she was a good-humored woman with a take-no-prisoners attitude. Her disposition suited her well, especially well as far as her career was concerned, and Severus's case could bear witness to that.

"You look like hell, Severus," she said candidly, brushing past him. Augusta stopped once inside the room to survey the mess covering the floor. A few of the parchments had been picked up by the brisk breeze blowing through the window and were drifting here and there. A wave of her hand and the window snapped shut. "I see you've seen to the paperwork…"

"Not _one_ word," Severus said, stooping to gather the sheets. Before he had seized hold of the first page, however, the parchments began to flutter upward and landed neatly in the center of his bed. He looked up in time to see Augusta place her wand back in the pocket of her robes.

"You're welcome," she said, the ghost of a slight smile on her face. "Now, shall we get down to business?"

It took Severus a moment, with his sleep-addled mind, to remember that she was supposed to fetch him for a meeting of sorts. "What's the purpose of this conference?" Severus asked. "Thomm was as helpful as a head cold when we spoke about it."

"That's because he had nothing to tell you," the Healer said, and Severus found that he was not overly fond of her tone. "The details were still being discussed. That said, I'm afraid there has been a bit of a delay."

He did not like the sound of that. "What sort of delay?"

"It's nothing to trouble yourself over. The third party involved has come into a bit of trouble—some nonsense over the cross-continental Portkey her Ministry had assigned. She should be along shortly." The Healer gave him an apprising look and pointed to the ink spot on his wrinkled trousers. "Pull yourself together and I'll see you in a bit," she said, and to Severus's annoyance, she slipped back out the door without another word.

Severus had half a mind to trail after her, demanding to know exactly when he would be allowed to leave, and even went as far as opening the door enough to peek down the hall. She was already gone, lost in the catacombs of offices and patient rooms.

The longer he scanned the hallway, however, he discovered he had neither the desire nor the state of alertness needed to search her out, but instead closed and locked his door once more before retreating into a small loo that adjoined his room. The washroom was modest, complete with a single wall-mounted basin near the toilet, and a stall shower stuck back in the far corner. It was hardly big enough for him, but it served its purpose.

Severus looked at himself in the mirror hanging over the sink—something he never did if he could help it—and was immediately reminded of why. The man in the mirror looked _tired_, well past the age of thirty nine (he certainly felt older than thirty nine). He squinted at his reflection, noticing the lines that had appeared near the corners of his eyes and the dark circles that he was certain would never truly go away without extensive magical interference.

_At least the mirror can't agre_e, he thought, and turned on the cold tap. He splashed his face with the icy water and wiped away the excess with a sand-textured hospital towel before brushing his teeth with a spare toothbrush. He would shower when he returned home, without threat of someone barging in and demanding his attention before he had made it out of his pants.

Satisfied with the rushed morning routine, he emerged from the loo and promptly went to the window. Severus threw back the drapes and allowed the winter sun to shine on his face. It was going to be a good day despite the ink-stained trousers, the crick in his neck, and the postponed meeting with a mystery guest… or so he thought.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly given the hospital's track record of such things, the morning quickly faded into afternoon, and afternoon was dissolving into evening before he was finally summoned several hours later to one of the rarely-used conference rooms located in the administrative section of the Dangerous Dai Llewllyn Ward. The room was as monotonous as the rest of the hospital with its bare, white walls and neutral wood paneling. A large conference table was positioned in the center of the room, and when Severus entered he found he was the only one there, save for a Mediwizard that had been tasked to prepare refreshments. Rease Taylor, or so her nametag suggested, offered Severus a cup of tea, which he declined, and tried to make polite conversation.

The conversation turned out to be one-sided, with the Mediwizard asking Severus questions as she laid out the various biscuits and sweets on serving trays and two different pots of tea. "_…Are you excited to finally go home… Do you think you'll ever return to Hogwarts…"_ When the witch realised she would be more likely to hear the table talk instead, she took it upon herself to answer for him between sneaking bites of food._ "bet you can't wait to get out of this place and start over... Hogwarts would certainly miss you if you decided not to return, Professor Snape…"_

He passed the time by counting the lines in the wood grain of the table, waiting until she finally grew tired of talking to herself and left. It took another fifteen minutes before the loquacious witch named Rease Taylor gave Severus a disapproving look and withdrew, leaving him alone with the trays sweets and the hot tea.

Once alone, Severus eyed the tea and various glazed and powered sweets and felt his empty stomach rumble. He had turned down the afternoon and evening meals provided by the hospital in favour of eating something that did not taste like parchment when he returned home. He had not, however, anticipated the delay to stretch well into the evening hours, and was now feeling the affect of his stubbornness.

Even more tantalizing, the food on the trays did not look like the standard hospital fair, to which his appetite was grateful. Even the tea with its strong aroma— in contrast to the normal fare of weak breakfast tea—gave him an inkling that Augusta was going out of her way to be hospitable to their mystery guest.

_They've even dragged out the porcelain china for this meeting_. Severus peered over his shoulder, determined to remain steadfast in his decision not to partake in the frivolous nonsense of sweets and tea _if_ he had an audience. He was alone as it happened, and he promptly selected a chocolate-glazed wafer topped with coconut shavings and popped the bite-sized morsel in his mouth.

It was easy to see why Rease Taylor had eaten one for every two she placed on the trays. Severus selected another, this one tinged pink with white frosting and little chips of chocolate. That one was strawberry— a flavor he found far too strong and not to his liking, so he selected another chocolate wafer to wash away the unpleasant taste. He had only gathered the wafer between his fingers when the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps echoed from beyond the closed door.

Upon hearing his impending guest, Severus dropped the thin biscuit on the tray and wiped his hands on one of the tea napkins, then hid the incriminating evidence in his trouser pockets. He straightened himself in his chair, making a special effort to look perturbed when the door finally swung open to reveal his Healer. Augusta scanned the room quickly once entering, as if searching for anything that might have been below standards. She had his discharge parchments tucked under one arm and what looked to be his medical file in her hand.

"Oh good," she said at last, "you're already here. I was hoping to speak with you privately before we begin."

"Only seven hours and thirty-six minutes late," Severus was quick to add, glancing down at his wrist as though he wore a watch. "I was told, by you in fact, that I would be going home today. Do you remember that? It was _seven hours and thirty-six minutes_ ago in case you've forgotten."

"Are you finished?" Augusta shuffled around the table, depositing the files in front of the empty seat nearest him. The sharp sound the parchments made when they hit the table told him that she was in a foul mood. "I'm trying to get you out of here as quickly as I can."

"By having unscheduled, unnecessary meetings?"

"Not unnecessary. This is part of your discharge requirements." She produced a single slip of parchment from the bottom of the stack and placed it in front of him. "The purpose of this meeting is to induct you into the Silhouette Initiative. Here is the agenda for this evening, look over it quickly and I'll be back in a moment."

"Silhouette Initiative? What in seven hells is that?"

Augusta released a heavy sigh, her lips curling into a deep frown. "You'll find out soon enough. Now would you read the agenda, please?" The Healer gave the conference room another scrutinizing stare, her eyes landing on the dusting of biscuit crumbs sprinkled on the table, and said, "Have you been eating those sweets?"

Severus glared at her levelly, secretly wishing he would have swiped another one out of spite now that he learned they were apparently off-limits even to him. "That would be the work of one of your minions," he insisted. "I'm surprised there are any left at all."

Augusta made a rather exasperated sound, shook her head, and withdrew from the room as quickly as she had came. And Severus, instead of reading as he had been told, did not hesitate to pick up the chocolate biscuit that had previously tempted him.

Out in the hall he could hear two voices distinctly above the rest. One belonged to his Healer, the other he had never heard in his life. The voice was feminine—so that thankfully ruled out a meeting that included Thomm— and as its owner neared the conference room, its pitch rose to an impassioned volume and laughter spilled forth into like the dreaded waters of a flood. Whoever this woman was, she had already managed to irritate him.

"Severus," Augusta said as she appeared in the door, flanked by the mystery woman, "I would like to introduce you to Zella Shrout. She is one of the many creative minds behind the Silhouette Initiative."

Zella Shrout was a willowy woman with a lean frame and sharp features that appeared to have been chiseled from stone. The witch was all cheekbones as far as he could tell. She overtopped Augusta by more than foot, though Severus suspected her choice of obscene footwear was mostly to blame. Her wiry, auburn hair was pulled back in a loose knot at the base of her neck—the look of a working woman, as his mother used to say—and it aged her by fifteen years at least. Despite that, she had a certain confidence to her, which Severus remarked looked much like arrogance. She gave him a polite, professional smile revealing blindingly white teeth, much too perfect to be natural, and extended a hand in his direction—complete with gleaming red nails that could have easily been mistaken for bloody talons.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Severus." She had an odd inflection in her voice—American English perhaps—which only accentuated the abrasive qualities of her personality; her hand seized Severus's before he had even come to a full stand, and she gave it a mighty shake. "Healer Barnes has mentioned you, the decorated war hero and all. It's an honour, truly, and I can't even begin to tell you how excited I am to initiate you into the Silhouette program."

Severus fixed her with a deliberately indifferent stare. "I'm sure."

"We are fortunate to have Zella here today," Augusta said in an attempt to draw the focus away from Severus's curtness. "She has been with the program from its conception, working quite closely with some of our most skilled Healers from St. Mungo's to perfect its use as an assimilation program for medical purposes."

The American witch flushed an unflattering shade of crimson. "Augusta is far too kind, I'm afraid. I only take suggestions from those already matched with a Silhouette to those in charge. That, and I find Bonds for those like you, Severus—those who are new to the concept and the magic behind it. "

Severus frowned, uncomfortable by the idea, and the Healer added, "It's her specialty. Bond matching, as it's called. You're in capable hands, Severus. You needn't worry."

"I still fail to see why this is necessary." Severus cast a nasty look toward both women, feeling his blood slowly beginning to simmer through his veins. _This is my life, damn it. I choose how I live what's left of it. "_I don't need this so-called assimilation service. I don't want it."

"On the contrary, Severus," Zella Shrout insisted. She gave him a pitying little smile and shook her head. "You are exactly the type of person who could benefit most from this program."

Severus took a solid step back and appraised her with deadly contempt, as though she were a bug he could easily squash. "I happen to disagree, Madam," he snapped, defiant. "You are not my primary caregiver, and as such, you have absolutely no authority to say what would benefit me and what would not."

"I understand your frustration," Zella replied, flashing another false smile.

"No, you most certainly do not." Severus gave an exasperated sigh and sank into his chair. "I have been here for nine months, I have been without my privacy for _nine_ months, and now, when I am only steps away from walking out of this godforsaken place for good, I'm told I have to become part of some cocked-up assimilation program." Severus turned to his Healer, his only means to escape this nightmare, and said, "I will not have it, Augusta."

Augusta made a face, like she had had the misfortune of passing by a bad smell. "Will you give us a moment, Zella?"

"Of course," the woman answered, her smile widening. "I'll be right outside." The lithesome witch turned away in a flourish, her obscenely high heels clicking as she went, and walked out into the hall.

"I don't want to hear it," Severus warned, not bothering to see if their guest was out of earshot. He hoped she was not, truth be told. "This is a load of bollocks and you know it just as well."

Augusta Barnes descended on him like a malevolent storm cloud. "Would you rather have the alternative, Severus?"

"What alternative? You've yet to say anything on the subject—"

"That's because it is worse, and I knew you'd never go for it!" she shrieked, cutting him off. "My God, you'd think I was asking you to chop off your right hand."

Severus frowned. "I would rather."

The Healer took the seat opposite him, and gathered his hands in hers—a gesture of pleading Severus knew she often employed when she felt he was being unreasonable. He hated that she reminded him of a much better version of his mother. "I am trying to help you, Severus Snape."

"If that were the case, you would leave me be."

The Healer ignored his plea and sat straighter in her chair. "You have two options. The first is Silhouette, and I can assure you it is not nearly as horrible as you imagine it to be. The second, and I'm _positive _this is something you would rather cut your arm off than do, and it is to open your home to someone from St. Mungo's four days out of the week."

"Absolutely not."

"Those are your choices." Her tone was firm, and Severus hated it. "It would be not only unprofessional of me to let you leave without any form of assistance, but irresponsible as well."

"I don't need—"

"But you do, though you won't admit it." She brushed a strand of his hair out of his face, and he deflated entirely. "Your short-term memory is not as it once was. You still have night terrors and the anxiety episodes. I cannot allow you to leave unless I know you have someone watching over you." She gave him a motherly pat on the cheek as if silently telling him to buck up, and said, "Zella Shrout is a shrew, I'll give you that, but hear her out before you make a decision."

"And if I disagree?"

"Then you might as well unpack your bag," Augusta answered, her face irritatingly placid. "I won't allow you to leave."

_And there it is. _Severus had wondered how long it would actually take her to play that card—turns out not very long at all so long as he was thoroughly impertinent. He was quite certain he would never like a word of anything Zella Shrout had to say, but seeing as that his release relied on his concession and his cooperation, he was left with no choice but to play along... until he could come up with a better idea, that is. _"_You make it difficult for me to tolerate you, do you know that?"

"I do it for your own good." Augusta stood, straightening the front of her lime green robes. "I'm going to fetch our guest now, so please try to behave yourself. You'll only make matters harder for everyone involved if you insist on acting like a fusspot."

_A little honest loathing never hurt anyone_. Severus started to fling back an unsavory remark in retaliation, but his Healer gave him a firm glare before she opened the door and walked out. Severus frowned, a single hand going up in defeat and annoyance. He found he could not gather the effort to complain.

"I think we're ready to begin," Augusta said from the hall. Then Severus heard the other witch's heels click on the tiles as she approached. The sound reminded him of his impending doom, the same way those Muggle bombs would tick down the seconds to destruction. He was certain Zella Shrout was about to drop an explosive of her own, completely blowing up whatever hope he had of leaving St. Mungo's peacefully.

"Excellent!" The witch trotted into the room and took a seat directly across the table from where Severus sat. She placed the black case she had been carting around on the table and drew her wand from her sleeve. One tap later, the latches clicked open and she began pilfering around inside. Zella drew out a thick, bound booklet of parchments and one small, rectangular shaped box. "Alright, Severus," she said at last, "First order of business: how much do you know about Silhouette?"

Severus yawned, covering his mouth with his hand, then replied with feigned interest, "Apart from the fact I have no desire to become part of it, nothing."

Zella gave him a cheerful smile, undeterred. "That's what I thought. Most people who seem to find issue with it have no understanding of what it is or the good that it brings. Silhouette is revolutionary in terms of magic. Wizardkind has yet to see anything like it." The witch slid the top page off the mountainous stack in front of her and pushed it over to Severus. "As you can see from this general overview, the program was modeled after what Muggles call Artificial Intelligence programs, _and_ when I say modeled I'm using the word in the loosest sense. They haven't a clue what they're doing with it, and we've perfected it in ways the Muggles could not."

Augusta glanced at Severus uneasily, and he rewarded her with a nasty glare. The thought made his skin crawl. "_Artificial Intelligence_?" he repeated. "How can intelligence possibly be artificial?"

The witch threw back her auburn head and released a high-pitched laugh. "Precisely, Severus! Now you're catching on! You see, that's where the Muggles get it wrong. They have their fancy computer programs that they claim can detect their environments and make informed decisions based on a number of factors. It's all nonsense. True intelligence can't be replicated by gears and bells and whistles. Oh no, it takes _real _people. It takes magic, and that is why Silhouette is so successful."

"It truly is unprecedented," Augusta remarked, and from her tone, Severus could easily detect her ploy to shovel on flattery by the towel full.

"That it is." Zella reached for the black box and slid it from its lid. "I know what you're thinking, Severus, and I would be lying if I said I did not share those same thoughts at first, but I'd like to show you exactly what I mean."

_This should be good, _he thought_. _The entire notion seemed ridiculous, and though he would be loath to admit it aloud, he was secretly counting down the moments until he could tell her so. "By all means," Severus replied. He gave a curt smirk and folded his arms over his chest. "Enlighten me."

"This is my personal Silhouette portrait," she said, lifting the object from the box. When she spoke, Severus could not help but compare to her a pompous parent swollen with pride for their firstborn. It was an absurd attachment to have with inanimate object.

The frame was clear—crystal, Severus suspected, given the way she held it with an obscene amount of care—and the clean, stylized lines of the rounded edges exemplified the shimmering rectangle of black in its center. Zella held it out for him and Augusta to see, and when she released it, the frame floated mid-air as though suspended by an invisible hand. "Exquisite, isn't it? I designed this one myself, and my personal secretary and dear friend from the States is my Silhouette. Do say hello, Caroline!"

The clear sides of the frame were suddenly illuminated a bright shade of blue, and unexpectedly the image of a young woman, fair-skinned and blonde, appeared where the black rectangle had been. She smiled happily out at the three of them and waved.

"I use my Silhouette as a means of quick communication for work purposes," Zella explained. "If I need to know the name of a contact, or the identification number of a person we employ as a Silhouette, I simply activate the portrait and Caroline is there to assist." Zella, who looked immensely pleased with herself, turned to Severus. "So, what are your thoughts?"

"I think it's preposterous, if not entirely pointless." Severus leaned in closer, as if about to share some clandestine secret and said, "And I can assure you have no patience for pointless things, Madam Shrout."

"He's a tough one, Zella," remarked the woman from the floating portrait.

Severus shot the blonde a deadly look, and she immediately dropped her gaze, red-faced. Severus did not tear his eyes away from the frame, hoping she would look up again so he could give her a double dose of his annoyance. However, as he studied the woman in the frame, an idea came to him, and one he hoped would work in his favour.

"Caroline, is it?" he asked, and the blonde gave him a nod. "Tell me, how do you feel about being at someone's beck and call, or would you prefer I refer to you as a house-elf instead?"

"I am _not_ at someone's beck and call, sir. Nor am I an elf," Caroline answered in a surprisingly cold voice, poorly hidden anger in her eyes. "This is a part of my job, not something I do twenty-four hours a day."

"So all Silhouettes are personal secretaries who punch a clock?" Severus quipped. He was quite pleased to see the beginnings of a frown taking root on Zella Shrout's face.

"They are whatever their Match needs them to be," Zella said before the woman in the portrait could respond. "That's the beauty of the magic behind it. The magic knows what is needed, and it alone bonds the Silhouette to their Match."

"She's right, Severus," Augusta supplied. "From what I understand, the program has several facets currently operational, ranging from assistants, like Caroline there, to those who are employed to be personal tutors to struggling school children."

"And why would I need either of those things?" he demanded, but as he did so, the Healer's true reasons dawned on him almost as quickly as the words had sprang from his tongue. How he had missed it before he did not know, but now the real reason behind this impromptu meeting was clear. It was not about his anxiety; he had learned to manage that part of his recovery well enough. It was not the night terrors either. They came very rarely now, and were mild compared to those he had endured straight off. This was something different. This was something neither of them had any business meddling with.

"I am in that great of need of a nanny, Augusta? Is that it? Severus Snape the miserable social pariah—" Severus cut himself off, feeling a stifling heat rise up in his face.

"You have been through more than any one person should have to endure—"

Severus's fist came down hard on the table. "And I have overcome all of it!"

"And this will help you continue to do so," the Healer said. "You have improved leaps and bounds, there is no doubt in that, but your recovery is far from over."

Zella cleared her throat. "As I understand it, Healer Barnes intends for you to use your portrait not much differently than I use mine. It is really not as bad as you'd think, and it's quite helpful, actually."

"It seems to have escaped me that I've become so weak-minded that I need someone else to think my every thought for me."

Zella Shrout's mouth opened and closed, then opened again though no words came out. The Healer simply shook her head, her fingers working the apparent tension from between her eyes.

"I have had all of this nonsense I can stomach," Severus told them, his expression one that carried all the sweetness of soured milk. He stood without saying another word and exited the conference room.

He had not managed to make it to the end of the long corridor before he heard the door he had just walked through click shut. Severus stopped mid-stride and turned to face the person who was no doubt his Healer, intent on giving her a fair piece of his mind.

Augusta Barnes was faster by far—a surprising thing for her age. "Over the course of your recovery, how many visitors have you had?"

Severus was not expecting her to lead with that. "I don't c—"

"I didn't ask you if you cared," Augusta snapped. "I asked you how many visitors you've had, and before you try to latch onto the idea, neither I nor any of the clods from the Ministry count."

It had never dawned on him before that apart from Kingsley Shacklebolt and his Aurors and undersecretaries, whose visits were few and far between, if not somewhat mandatory, he had not received a single visitor. There had to have been someone he was not bringing to mind, but for the life of him, Severus could not say who.

The early days of his recovery were lost in an impenetrable fog, though Severus was not entirely sure whether the blame fell on his lack of consciousness or his substandard ability to recall information shortly after his eyes finally opened. When he woke there were no flowers or boxes of sweets, no notes or letters wishing him a quick mending. There was not a single person waiting to speak with him that was not there out of some professional obligation. There was only the stench of overcleanliness and the bare grey-white walls of his recovery room. To say that he did not value his peace would have been a lie; Severus equated the speed of his recovery with all of the extra time he had on his hands. It was impossible to see how that was a bad thing.

"I fail to see the point you are trying to make." Severus turned his back to her with the hope that she would disappear when he turned around, and began to pour himself a cup of tea from the nearby serving cart.

"I'm trying to tell you that you have no one in your life apart from your Healer, and it should not take someone of my expertise to see that that is a harmful thing."

The teapot in his hand hit the mobile serving station with a heavy clattering, tepid tea sloshing out of its spout and onto the lace doily upon which it rested. "Spare me your sage advice, Augusta. I'm in no mood for it."

The Healer ignored that. "Severus, this lonesomeness of yours will only lead you to trouble. It will undo the progress you've made over the past nine months. I have seen it happen more times than I'd like to admit, and more often than not, those who most need to reach out to others are those who simply cannot do it."

"And you think forcing me to confide in a complete stranger will help me reach out?" He gave a bitter laugh. "You forget who you're speaking to, it seems."

"I think it will coax you out of the shell you've encased yourself with."

"I don't need anyone, I have _never_ needed anyone."

"To hell with that!" When the Healer's voice rose several octaves higher some passersby took notice, casting the two of them quizzical looks. Augusta seized Severus by the arm and ushered him into an empty patient room, closing the door behind them. "You look me in the eye right now and tell me that your seclusion was not out of necessity. That part of your life is over, Severus Snape, and as soon as you accept that fact, the sooner you can focus on building a normal life for yourself."

Severus did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all.

"I am only asking you to give it an honest chance," Augusta continued. "Six months from now, should you still find my motives wrong, I will gladly take whatever coarse language I've earned."

That got her a scathing look from her patient, who for a moment looked as though he would have liked to protest. Instead Severus sank down onto the empty cot, his head in his hands. _Six months. Twenty-four weeks. One hundred and sixty-eight days—_he made himself stop there, certain the sheer number of hours and minutes would make him curse the day he had been found in the Shrieking Shack.

"Don't fight me on this, Severus." Augusta sat down on the bed beside him and pushed her spectacles atop her grey-streaked head. "You have no hope of winning."

Severus felt his defiance fall to pieces. She was right after all. He had absolutely no hope of winning unless he was content on furthering his stay at St. Mungo's. There was no use in complaining either, and his current situation could easily testify to that fact. His objections would simply fall on deaf ears.

"I know you've survived far worse. This is nothing." Augusta slid her arm over Severus's shoulder and gave an encouraging squeeze, paying no mind to his sudden silence. The Healer was on her feet after that, turning for the door. "Six months will come and go before you realise. Now come along so we can send you on your way before night falls."

Severus had learned to read the faces of those around him from an young age, but in that moment it would not have taken even a single day of practice to see that Augusta Barnes was not going to take no for an answer. He rose sullenly to his feet and followed her out into the hall.

When they had arrived outside the meeting room, Zella was having an intense conversation with the woman in the floating portrait, an infirmary- issue teacup and matching saucer trailing behind her as she paced the length of the room. "—soon as the Healer is able to get him to cooperate I'll be ready to cast the spell and complete the activation."

"Everything is in place according to the Healer's wishes," the voice from the frame said.

Augusta cleared her throat before Shrout or her assistant could elaborate—as wise as it was intentional, Severus suspected. The three witches had probably discussed him and the best course of action at great length.

Shrout said something unintelligible and the portrait went dark, though it kept its place some feet above the floor as if suspended by an invisible hand. "Now," said Zella, "where were we?"

"I think you were about to prattle on and make a valiant attempt to ruin what's left of my life," Severus said, slowly giving the words time to reach their mark. It did not take long. Zella gaped at him, an odd mixture of shock and vexation that was most unflattering for her face. Augusta gave him a sharp, disapproving look, and said something from the corner of her mouth that mildly resembled the words 'embarrassment' and 'ashamed'.

Severus ignored them both and sat down in the chair nearest the sweets. He picked up two of the chocolate coconut confections, appraised them for a moment, then popped both in his mouth, all while both women stared at him. "Get on with it, won't you," Severus said finally. "I would like to go home."

Zella Shrout seemed to gather her wits, or at least Severus thought that was the case as he watched the stupid expression she wore melt away into one that looked a lot like determination. "Of course," she said politely, though it was a forced sort of pleasantry. Zella handed him another sheet of parchment with the heading: _Silhouette: The Ins and Outs and Even Those Pesky In-Betweens, _and began reading the document verbatim as he pretended to follow along.

Severus listened vaguely as she read about the history of the program, how far it had come, and the direction its creators had intended it to go (he almost suggested where he thought it and all of those responsible should go, but ate another biscuit instead). The testimonials came next, and those, Severus found, were even more ridiculous than the premise itself. Finally came the laundry list of features, and each of those—which were customizable to any given Match—seemed more pointless than the previous.

"So," Zella said at last, "I'm sure you would like to see your very own Silhouette portrait. It was designed specifically for you, and I think you'll be pleased."

_Not bloody likely_, Severus thought as she snapped her fingers, only to have a thin, black box materialize out of thin air. The silver ribbons attaching the lid to the base untied and landed on the table below along with the lid.

"This was beautifully constructed with you in mind," said Zella. She gingerly extracted the frame and held it out for him to examine. "Minimalistic and timeless in detail and design, but sleek all the same."

Severus could hardly see how the detail was minimalistic when he finally saw the thing. It was slightly larger than the crystal frame belonging to Shrout, and unlike the clean, stylized edges of hers, it had thick, black, beveled edges complete with ornate carvings. The almost metallic looking picture mat around the darkened rectangle in the center made it look even more preposterous. It reminded him of the frame surrounding the screaming portrait of Walburga Black at Grimmauld Place, and he found he hated it even more after the unfortunate comparison was made.

"You must have questions" Shrout began, placing the frame in front of him. "I would be more than happy to address any misconceptions or concerns before we begin the activation."

"Yes. I do have concerns and several of them in fact," he snapped. "To start, how am I to pay for this?"

"Your Ministry of Magic has already agreed to cover the expenses, per their agreement to assist those who played a substantial role in your Wizarding War. This qualifies as part of your treatment." Zella's lips curled over her teeth in another falsely reassuring grin. "I won't be taking anything from your pockets."

_Though not for lack of trying,_ Severus thought. Zella Shrout was a businesswoman first and foremost, trained to sell and persuade until the buyer relented, or in his case was forced to relent against his will. Nothing was ever free, and he was starting to believe this was how fate had decided to settle the score, as if nearly dying was not enough.

"I don't have to pay for it, fine." Severus regarded the frame as though it might suddenly spout legs and run up his trouser leg, or worse, reveal the howling matriarch of the Black family, then asked, "But who is to say I won't be matched with a complete lunatic?"

"I don't think—" Augusta began, only to be cut off rather quickly by Shrout, and Severus was pleased to see a pointed look directed at someone other than him for once.

"We screen every applicant, and select only those of impeccable intellect, social skill, and personality." Zella spoke in the voice of someone explaining something plainly obvious to a stupid child. "You have nothing to fear. Whomever you are matched with will be in their right mind, and they will be compatible. "

"And if there is a mistake in the pairing," Severus pressed, "will I have to go through this ridiculous process until you find someone that works?"

"Once the Bond has been made, Severus, there can be no more attmepts," Augusta said.

Zella confirmed the Healer's statement with a grave nod. "The magic is absolute, the magic is certain. The only way for there to be a mistake in the pairing, as you put it, is if you made it so. The magic the program is founded upon, while new, has very old roots. Old magic is temperamental at best, and it is not easy to forgive, especially if one attempts to break the bonds it creates."

"Think of wands and how they behave," Augusta supplied on cue. "Especially when the bonds they share with their owners are tampered with."

"Exactly right," Zella said. "No replacement wand will ever be as good as the wand that chose you above all the rest. Silhouette is exactly the same, and for that reason we do not offer the option of multiple Bonds. There would be no point, because when you harness that age-old magic as we have done the results are amazing. The magic somehow _knows_ what a person needs even before they realise it themselves."

The premise was ludicrous, and Severus made a great effort not to show his contempt, choosing instead to pick up a random parchment on the table and pretend to be mildly interested in its contents. That too, proved to be equally tedious because it turned out to be a much more diluted version of the parchment she had read only minutes before.

"Whenever you're ready, we can begin the activation," Zella told him after a moment. She poured another cup of tea, and filled it with enough honey to draw flies. "The whole process should take less than an hour, as I'm sure you'll want to conference with your Silhouette before you leave."

"I would prefer to do this without an audience if you don't mind," Severus said, casting a sideways glance at what was to become his frame. "I think I can manage it well enough on my own."

The two witches exchanged a look, but Severus went back to his reading before they could hassle him over the matter further.

"We will know if the portrait is not activated." Zella's voice was suddenly hushed, and Severus peered over the parchment to see her looking at the Healer instead of him. "When a portrait is activated outside of a session we receive immediate word from the Silhouette that they've begun their duties."

"I don't think we'll have any reason to suspect," Augusta said with chilly courtesy. "Severus will follow my orders."

"Could you please not talk as though I am not sitting directly in front of you?" Severus crushed the parchment in his fist. "It's offensive."

Zella gave him a curious look. "It's only a precaution."

"I think what you mean to say is a means to guarantee compliance." Severus tossed the crumpled parchment on the table, though he would have liked to have launched it at her head. "But whatever the case, I appreciate neither."

Severus was pleased to see Zella force herself to smile. "If Healer Barnes agrees, I see no reason why that wouldn't work." The witch paused to take an annoyingly loud sip of tea before she stood. "All that's left to do is the bonding spell, and that can only be done by someone properly trained and with authorization."

Severus started to cross his arms over his chest, ready to bombard her with another round of questioning, but Zella Shrout had produced her wand and had it pointed directly between his eyes. He was too shocked to resist, though it would not have mattered had he been expecting it. It was all over in the span of breath, though it seemed to stretch the ages.

Severus felt himself seize up in his chair and the wind in his lungs abruptly expel. He found he could not move, could not think, due to the subtle tremors that started in his feet and stole up his legs. The sharp pain shot through his chest and down his arm next, coming to settle over his left wrist. Severus was certain he was falling into a state of cardiac arrest, but the world went black before he could mention a word about it. He came to seconds later, consciousness hitting him like a hammer, and he sucked in a colossal gulp of air only to have it trigger a coughing fit.

"Not to worry, Severus," he heard Zella say over his hacking. She gave him a forceful clap on the back and said, "What you are experiencing is a natural reaction to spell. You'll be fit as a fiddle in a minute or two." Zella's hand snaked down his arm and grabbed his wrist, her outrageous red nails racking across a stinging welt that had appeared.

Severus jerked his arm out of her grasp and tried to stand, but when his legs failed to cooperate, he settled with pushing the chair backwards a prudent distance with his feet. "_…the bloody hell… you do to me…_" He was reaching for an indignant tone, but did not quite achieve it due to his wheezing.

Zella ignored his colorful turn of phrase, and spoke to Augusta. "The worst of it's over. He's bound with his Silhouette, and quite strongly from the look of that seal."

Her words went in one ear and out the other as Severus stared down at the afflicted wrist through the flashing constellation of stars wheeling in front of his eyes. There, etched into the shallow skin above his veins, was a bright red weal that spiraled on both ends. It was beginning to darken at the center, the deep shade of violet moving outward. The longer he looked at it, the more Severus realised that it thrummed in time with his pulse, like something very much alive. His insides took a roll forward once the familiar connection was made. _I've rid myself of one mark only to be bound with another_.

"The seal will fade as soon as you terminate your bond, and bear in mind once it is terminated, it is over," Shrout told him when she realised he was giving it a thorough inspection. "You've a double spiral, one of the strongest bonds that can be formed with magic. It's a Celtic symbol, the double spiral. It's often used to symbolize the equinoxes, a day when night and day are equal, perfectly balanced."

"I know what a damn equinox is," Severus snapped. "Tell me what means."

That appeared to strike Shrout as amusing and she grinned. "It means your match is damn near perfect for—"

The crystal photo frame belonging to Shrout made a sudden noise as it came to life, the blue light nearly bright enough to blind. The witch named Caroline looked somewhat discomfited as she stared out at the three of them, and Zella fell silent upon seeing her face.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Caroline said rather quickly, almost stumbling over the words, "but there is an urgent matter with one of our Silhouettes."

"Not to worry," Shrout gave her wand a wave and the various parchments fluttered back into the briefcase. "We've just finished here. Give me a moment to gather up my materials and I'll see if I can't steal away for a few minutes. "

"You can use my office if you need privacy," Augusta offered. She stood and hastily moved toward the door. "It's down the corridor - first door on the left. You should see my name on the outside. I'll see Severus on his way, and join you shortly to finalize paperwork."

Augusta turned to Severus and said, "Thomm will be along in a moment to deliver your wand and escort you to the Apparition point. Do behave yourself, and congratulations Severus. You've earned it."

Augusta slipped through the door and Severus was left alone to brood. _It will be as if I've never left _he thought, staring down at the slick-surfaced portrait in its box. The black frame surrounded by the silver matting gleamed, so much that he could see the room's reflection off its surface.

"Mister Snape," Severus heard from behind him. He turned to see Thomm in the doorway. "It's time to go."

Under normal circumstance Severus would not have allowed the tone in which Thomm ordered him along slide. As it happened, however, he found he did not care, and swiveled around in the office chair listlessly. "My wand?"

"Waiting for you at the Apparition point." Thomm gave his own wand a rather extravagant flourish— much more than was necessary in Severus opinion—and the Silhouette portrait vanished. "Along with your other things."

_Not a moment too soon_, Severus thought as he eased himself out of his seat. He followed Thomm down the hallway and became acutely aware of the roar that was growing outside. Five wizards, some hospital security and a few Mediwizards, were waiting by the doorway to escort him to the Apparition point. Thomm scurried off before one of them opened the door that led Severus to his long-awaited freedom. When the door was opened, Severus saw the source of the noise he had heard, as a throng of reporters stood between him and his destination.

"Damn you, Augusta," he said as the first flashbulb erupted. Severus knew it was not her fault that the press had learned of his impending discharge; the Senior Healer of the Dangerous Dai Llewllyn Ward had done everything in her power to keep his recovery as confidential as she could manage, but even she could not control those who eavesdropped and sold their secrets—patients, visitors and wayward staff alike—but as he did not know the names of those who had sold him out, Augusta would have to take the blame.

The explosion of light was followed by the thundering sound of voices, and dozens of them if the noise was any indication. Some were screaming his name (the journalists), but most were screaming obscenities. Another flashbulb flared right beside Severus's head, nearly blinding him, and he grabbed an arm belonging to one of his escorts to keep from losing his footing. The floodgates opened not long after that, and the crowd descended.

The throng pressed inward, and some even reached for him, despite the wall of hospital staff flanking him. When they found that they could not touch him, they resorted to throwing the frozen snow that covered the ground. It took one of the icy clods hitting Severus in the face, breaking the skin just below his right eye, for the Mediwizards to not only quicken their pace, but to cast a Shield Charm as well. The charm worked to deflect any projectiles, but their poisonous words slipped though like water in sieve.

_Traitor… Murderer… Coward…_

Severus had heard it all before, but that did not mean it stung any less. He had thought he had put all of that behind him, but one never could completely lay old wounds to rest. They would always resurface, as most horrible, hidden things do, and when they did, they were often just be as sharp and just as painful as if they were brand-new.

And then, as if to prove the point, someone screamed, "_Fuck you, Snape_," taking special care to draw out the single syllabic word to an outrageous yowl. Severus glanced back over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of the red-faced man he had never seen in his life. The colour was high in his cheeks, his chest heaving as he looked on with something very close to hate written all over his fat face. The man caught Severus looking at him and yelled the phrase again, this time his expression lighting up with satisfaction when he realised he had been heard.

Severus wiped a trailing droplet of blood from his face— he was sure from a distance it might have looked like he was wiping away nervous sweat, and that would not do. He looked straight ahead with his head held high. _No_, he thought._ Fuck you. Every last one of you_.

"Hold tight, Mister Snape," one of the nameless Mediwizards yelled in his ear, drowning out the slurs. "We're nearly there."

And so they were.

In the next breath, Severus felt himself being compressed and twisted, slung sideways, then upward in a violent, sickening motion. The street began to flatten and fold in on itself and finally shrink as he and the Mediwizards were spun into a state of nonexistence.

Severus's feet touched the frozen ground a split second later some fifty miles away, and without so much as the sour warning in the back of his throat, he promptly vomited on the front stoop of Spinner's End.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: I thought I'd post the next chapter before we all found ourselves in the middle of the chaos that is Thanksgiving. I hope you enjoy! This story is for Thorned Huntress, cheerleader extraordinaire and kick-ass friend. Next update to come in a few weeks!<p>

As always reviews are welcomed and greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter II

****Characters are property of J.K Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.****

* * *

><p><strong><strong>Silhouette<strong>**

**Chapter II**

Severus let out a low groan and blinked through the throbbing pain bouncing off the inside of his skull.

When he regained enough of his senses, he found that he was sitting on the top step with his head between his knees. _Home_, he thought, the idea floating through his mind trying to find some semblance of meaning. _I'm home._

Sitting straighter, Severus cradled his head, pressing the heel of each palm into his closed eyelids. The events leading up to his arrival, though dim, were slowly gathering clarity the longer he coaxed himself back to levelheadedness. He remembered the crowds, he remembered the sudden, shocking feeling of nausea, and he remembered seeing his front door. He looked down and saw one of the Mediwizards vanishing the resulting vomit that covered the steps, and recalled that too.

"You're alright, yes?" one of the Mediwizards asked, stooping to look him in the eye. He was a rather tall fellow with a receding blond hair and slightly misaligned pupils. "You've been out of commission for a while, so it's only a natural response to the Apparation." A strong hand clapped Severus on the back, nearly knocking him off the step, and the same voice said, "Hell, Denton over there still turns green at the very mention of it."

"Shove off, Oren," rasped a rather winded voice. "I've got a condition, and besides that much vertigo nearly turns a man inside out."

"You've got a condition alright," answered his companion. "It's called being a pu—"

"I beg your pardon," Severus said with impeccable restraint, "but is there anything else the two of you need to do?" The Mediwizards immediately fell silent, as if suddenly remembering a thing called professionalism, and Severus hoisted himself to his feet, dusting off his trousers as he stood.

"Not unless there's anything thing else you need from us," said the Mediwizard named Oren.

"We tried to bring your personal affects by earlier, you know to make things easier," offered Denton. He pulled a small sachet from his robe pockets and emptied upon the stone steps. Out spilled Severus's black trunk, shrunken of course, and a miniature version of the box containing his Silhouette portrait. They grew back to their original size with a simple, sharp arch of his wand. "We couldn't get in, obviously. You've this place locked down tighter than a Goblin's fist 'round a Galleon."

"Impressive spell work by the way," added Oren. "I would expect you'll need your wand to set it all straight." The Mediwizard dug around in his pockets for a moment before finally producing Severus's wand. "Impressive wand, too," he said, giving it a quick appraisal. "No doubt one of the reasons you're standing here today."

Severus had nothing to say to that, but simply held out his hand to receive what was his. The Mediwizard smiled, and dropped it into his opened hand. "Of course the wand is only as good as the wizard," he supplied.

"Hear, hear," the other agreed.

Oren clapped Severus on the back again, then said, "Well then, Mister Snape, I suppose we'll leave you to it."

"Good afternoon gentlemen," Severus replied, turning without another word.

They Disapparated without the slightest sound after that, and Severus could not have been more grateful. He stared down at the wand in his hand, and for the first time in a very long time, felt relieved. It felt good to have it in his hands, to feel the familiar grit of the Blackthorn wood and the sound connection with the dragon heartstring core. It had been torture being separated from the one thing that had been a constant part of his life since the day he bought it, nearly thirty years ago.

Severus glanced over his shoulder—out of habit more than precaution; the streets of Spinner's End were hardly traversed now, especially at the current hour— then trained his wand on the black trunk and the box. With a single, swift, upward motion of his hand the trunk rose effortlessly from the stoop. Severus turned his wrist slowly, as if testing an old wound, and the trunk and box mimicked the movement, turning upside down entirely. The trunk back to the ground with the slow lowering of his hand, and at the snap of his fingers the lid sprung open, allowing the box to drop inside. At that, Severus felt a truly genuine smile take shape on his face.

The spell work preventing unwanted trespassers was precisely as the Mediwizards had described; impenetrable and still quite strong despite Severus's extended absence. Any Muggle that strayed too close as they passed by would have suddenly found themselves filled with an immense sense of dread that bordered on the primal instinct of self-preservation. It worked surprisingly well on witches and wizards—the effects similar to sticking one's finger in a live Muggle light socket should they try to thwart the precautions.

He closed his eyes and concentrated intently on the spell that would lower the protective enchantments. He repeated the words over and over in his mind before daring to say them aloud. As the words finally left his lips, he moved his wand in a sweeping motion from left to right. If he were being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he felt an embarrassing amount of nervousness as he took the step onto his front landing. He let out a sigh of relief when he felt the solid boards beneath his feet. It had worked. He could at least take some solace in the fact that he had not lost all of his magical ability. He flicked his wand toward the door and it swung open wide to allow him and the objects he was once again levitating to pass through.

The sudden staleness of the air reached out of the darkness of the house's interior and seemed to smack him in the face. The house certainly smelled as though it had been uninhabited for almost a year but there was something else, like he had forgotten to put out the fire in the hearth and it had slowly smoldered itself out. He reached over, tapped the lamp nearest him with his wand, and immediately regretted the decision of turning on the light.

Upon the floor and nearly every flat surface in his sitting room were the remnants of Howlers and year-old copies of the Daily Prophet. Shredded, dingy newsprint, and red envelopes covered the floor, mixed with ash and singed bits of whatever the letters happened to have been near when they finally exploded. Severus looked over rather warily to his favorite chair—a lush, broken-in thing with dark brown leather upholstery and matching foot stool—and saw a hefty pile of soot and bits of grey stained fluff sticking from between the seams. Never once had it occurred to him to the need to block the post in addition to potential intruders. In hindsight, it was a rather large and particularly messy oversight.

Severus surveyed the rubbish heap that now took the place of his living room and saw one Howler that had not yet exploded. He picked it up and examined it, hoping that it would bear its sender's name. To Severus's dismay, however, the seal on the Howler had apparently grown weaker with age and the blood red envelope sprang open to release a cacophony of angry shouting.

"_Snape, you miserable coward!_" an unfamiliar female voice screamed. "_I've just read Rita Skeeter's book. If half of what she says about you is true, you are no better than the scum between a troll's toes! It's a tragedy—an absolute tragedy— that you get to live free while so many brave witches and wizards gave their lives. I hope what you've done haunts you the rest of your wretched days!"_

With that, the Howler gave another earsplitting shriek of anger and mercifully burst into flame, leaving a fresh dusting of ash covering his shoes.

"Well, fuck," was all he said, and tapped the lampshade again as if the abrupt darkness would make it all go away. Severus stood there in his darkened parlor for a long moment contemplating the ringing silence the Howler had left in its wake, then finally turned for the kitchen. Truth be told, he had no idea what to do next, so he decided to do the one thing that always made sense to him, and that was make a fresh pot of tea.

The kitchen was, much to his surprise and relief, free of any soot of singed debris, but had its fair share of dust. He swiped his fingers across the table, tracing a semi-clear path through the grime, and knew the following day would involve a hideous amount of cleaning. "But tea first," he insisted aloud, and began gathering what he would need.

It had been almost nine months since he had a proper cup of tea, but it did not take him long to fall into the familiar rhythm he found when brewing in his very own kitchen. There was something oddly therapeutic in the preparation. He did not have to think about the process, but rather let his hands lead him through the motions as they had always done in the past.

Severus stood at the cooker listening to the sound of the kettle tick as it heated. The silence cleared his head, made him see things less cynically—which was rather hard at the moment, considering his entire day seemed to have risen up from some heinous pit of hell. He did not feel angry about the unexpected mess, the Howlers, the numerous delays of the day, or even Zella Shrout and her ridiculous Silhouette program, but comfortably numb. That surprisingly brought him a great deal of satisfaction.

Severus took a moment to survey his home and made a mental list of things that he would need to do now that he was back. First on the list was to do something about the mountain of red and white confetti that littered his floor. He had never been a particularly well-liked person to begin with, he was aware of that. He was also aware that people were going to be angry with him over his involvement with the Dark Lord even though they had no idea as to the whole story. He had failed to realize, however, the sheer quantity of people that would go through the trouble of informing him of the disdain personally.

_With the Dark Lord vanquished, I may well be the most hated wizard in Britain_, he thought. He recalled what the Howler had screamed at him minutes prior and his thoughts turned to the book Rita Skeeter had penned about him.

He had been recuperating in St. Mungo's when he first heard of _Snape: Scoundrel or Saint_?. Despite never laying eyes on the book personally, Severus was sure which of the two titular portraits Skeeter had chosen to paint of him. His tea kettle whistled loudly, but Severus had already decided that he would need something a little stronger than Earl Grey to make it through the evening. He left the kettle of boiling water on the counter and walked to his liquor cabinet to fill his empty mug with Ogden's Old. He raised the mug high in mock salute and said aloud, "Here's to you, Rita, you miserable cunt" as he downed his drink in one swallow.

Severus's toast was followed immediately by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. A tawny owl appeared at the kitchen window and began pecking away at the glass most incessantly. Annoyed, Severus raised the glass and took delivery of a rolled up piece of parchment. After he had shooed the bird away, Severus unrolled the message.

_Severus, _

_I'm sure you're quite busy settling in, but it is of the utmost importance that you activate your portrait __tonight__. Zella and her team cannot complete the registration process unless your portrait is synchronized with the one belonging to your Silhouette. This is important, so don't ignore me. If I hear from Zella tomorrow that your portrait has still not been activated, I won't hesitate to pay you a visit to see that it's done properly. _

_If not for me, do it for yourself._

—_Augusta_

"Not even through the bloody door fifteen minutes…" Severus crushed the parchment in his fist, and launched it down the darkened hall leading to the sitting room. Rather than retrieving the box containing his portrait, he reached for the bottle of Firewhisky and poured himself a liberal amount. "You can sod off as well, Barnes, you and your Silhouette portrait."

There was a sudden commotion coming from the dark sitting room, and Severus nearly choked on his Firewhisky. The muffled noise echoed throughout the empty house, a sharp pounding of footsteps or perhaps a fist upon a wooden door. _The crowds have come to run me out of town on a rail_, he thought, not caring much for that particular scenario. Severus could not properly recognize the sound, but it seemed as though someone or something was trying to burst its way out of the wall. With nothing better to do, and the childish urge to hex someone to oblivion, he drew his wand and eased himself down the hall in search of the noise's source.

His feet managed to carry him solidly for a few strides before they connected with a hard, rectangular object and sent him barreling forward to catch his balance. Severus spun around once he found his footing to see his black trunk—the same trunk he was certain he had left sitting by the door when he arrived. He took a cautious step back only to have the trunk lurch forward as if kicked by an invisible foot.

"What the devil…"

He almost nudged the latch with the toe of his boot but thought better of it. Instead, Severus took another step back and watched with a fair amount of unease. The trunk gave an abrupt heave toward him a second time, stopping just a few feet shy from where he stood. This time, curiosity won the battle against common sense and self preservation, and he released the single latch from its hook with a wave of his wand. The lid flew open at once and up rose the black box containing his Silhouette portrait. Severus looked at the velveted box unhappily, as if he had only discovered its primary function was to cause him unimaginable misery.

The box floated closer to him, coming to hover within arm's reach, and he suddenly understood the concept of artificial intelligence as Zella Shrout had described it. The thing was sentient or at least semi-sentient as far as Severus was concerned, and he had just unwittingly activated it, though how he had achieved such a feat was still lost to him. He made a mental note not to toss the instruction manual Shrout had given him into the rubbish bin as he seized the box from midair and slid the base from the lid.

Freeing the contraption from the box, Severus held the frame to the light streaming in from the kitchen to give it a proper inspection. There was no sign of life other than his reflection in the shiny, black center, but it felt aware in his hand. More than that, the double spiral marring the flesh above his wrist thrummed as though a live current was coursing through it. Without realising what he was doing, or thinking of the possible consequences, his left hand took the frame from the right, and in that moment several things happened at once.

The most noticeable of those things was the unyielding and completely involuntary grip with which his hand grasped the frame. In spite of his initial panic and struggle, in spite of the fierce aide his right hand tried to provide, the fingers of his left would not let go. The second thing, which quickly moved to the forefront of his mind, was the throbbing ache that was beginning to surge around the mark on his wrist. The double spiral swirled slowly, almost hypnotically on his skin until it started to dissipate, following the veins running down his hand and through the fingers clutching the frame.

The frame started to tremble—it might have been his hand, but Severus could not truly tell—until his entire left arm was quaking from the force.

Then, as if he had simply imagined the entire ordeal, everything stopped.

The ache in his wrist and hand lessened, and Severus's fingers relaxed on their own accord. The frame, which did not fall to the floor when he released it was left floating rather listlessly in front of him. The urge to blast it to bits was difficult to control, but the prospect of going back to St. Mungo's to face Augusta should he destroy the thing was even more overwhelming. Instead, he gazed indignantly at its black surface, trying to decide what to do next.

He did not have to wait very long at all. A thin whine erupted from the portrait and a white light flared around the edges. The surface was no longer black, but slowly glowing brighter and brighter as the seconds passed. Severus had no idea who he expected to appear in the frame, but it certainly was not the image of the person starting to slowly come into focus.

The woman in the frame was fair in complexion. She had kind features and dark hair, complete with deep-set, blue eyes, and a set of rounded lips. As the image sharpened, he could see that the woman's bottom lip was pinched between her teeth, though Severus could not help but notice that it was out of nervousness. She was completely foreign to him, and given the softness of her face, younger as well—perhaps in her mid to late twenties if he had to venture a guess.

He wondered if she was doing the same to him, studying his face, trying to decide if she recognized the person staring back at her. If she was from Wizarding Britain she would have had to have lived under a boulder for the last twenty years not to know who he was, especially given the press he received following the end of the war. If he were even remotely close to the age he thought she was, Severus would have undoubtedly taught her during his tenure at Hogwarts.

"Hello," she said. "Please call me Adelaide." Her voice was quiet, but it carried an unmistakable touch of warmth and sincerity, like she was eager and perfectly willing to talk to a complete stranger. It was terribly uncomfortable, if not irritating.

_Adelaide_? Severus was almost certain he would have remembered a name like that; it was not very commonplace, even in the Wizarding world. "Adelaide what?" he demanded.

"Forgive me," the raven-haired witch said. "My name is Adelaide Harlowe." She smiled, revealing just a hint of her teeth and the subtle gap between the two in the front. It somehow made her look younger, innocent even. "What may I call you?"

_Adelaide Harlowe_. The surname, Severus found, was even less helpful, but what he did know about her was exactly what he feared. She was far too keen for her own good and a complete and utter stranger. Add to the mix that she was most likely ten years his junior and the opposite sex, and he was certain they have little to no common ground.

"You will call me Mister Snape," he told her, and even to him his voice sounded harsh. "This arrangement, as I'm sure you've been told by your superiors, is not something I have agreed to willingly. Like it or not, here we are, and we have no other choice but to see this farce to its end. I am supposed to open my home to you, to see you as a companion of sorts, and I find no advantage or merit in either of those things. Don't expect me to call upon you, and don't seek me out." Severus paused, searching for any hint of a reaction, only to find nothing giving away her displeasure, her intimidation, or her shock. She simply let him talk and she listened. "I'll do whatever is necessary to keep from going back to St. Mungo's but nothing more."

"The program logs the number of hours our portraits are active and synchronized, Mister Snape," Adelaide said, her voice calm and collected despite his discourtesy. "I'll see that we meet the minimum requirements prescribed by your Healer. No more, no less."

"If it were possible to do less, I can assure you I wouldn't hesitate." _It isn't likely we have much in common to fill the imminent silences we're both about to endure,_ he almost added, but decided against it in the end.

The witch smiled a smile that caused her oval face to go from ordinary to radiant in an instant, and Severus looked away abruptly to keep from staring at her. "I do hope to change your mind."

"If life has taught me one lesson, Miss Harlowe, it's that hope very rarely makes what we want so. You'd be wise to remember that." Severus stalked off toward the sitting room, leaving the portrait floating in the hall and the unfamiliar Adelaide Harlowe staring after him.

Severus found he was undergoing a small internal struggle upon entering the sitting room. The prospect of dealing with the mess and possibly finding another unopened Howler in the process was off-putting; he found manual housework tedious at best, and knew with certainty that the magical properties of the Howlers prevented the use of a simple Vanishing Spell. Still, that made no difference in the cold practicalities of the situation. It was either make small talk with a complete stranger or use manual labor as an excuse.

"_Incendio_," Severus mumbled, the words escaping him sourly, and the remnants of the dried logs in the fire box were ablaze. He scrutinized the disarray underfoot for a long moment, and decided it looked almost manageable in the muted firelight. Rolling up his sleeves, he set to work with only the solace of knowing it would buy him time to think of how to address the issue of the unwanted guest still floating in the hall.

Fireplace shovel and brush in hand, Severus was quickly reminded of how uncompromisingly plain his home was once the soot and debris were swept away; the sun and age faded carpets covering the floor, the threadbare sofa with its musty, uncomfortable cushions, the rickety table whose top was littered with crescent shaped water stains. This was a pitiful sight, he knew, but it was all he had left.

Severus strode over to the fireplace, dumped the shovelful of ash, singed carpet fibers and parchment into the fire box and then stood very quietly and gazed into the flames. The double spiral on his wrist ached relentlessly. The emotional numbness he had felt only minutes before—relished even— was beginning to wane, and in its place the misery of his current situation seemed to rear up in front of his eyes.

Hardly aware that he had moved, Severus found himself standing next to his chair. He gathered the grey fluff protruding from the damaged leather upholstery between his fingers and carefully tried to tuck it back where it belonged. Each time he withdrew his fingers, he only seemed to dislodge more of the stuffing or damage the broken seam further. That simple, seemingly unimportant action was all it took for the faint signs of an impending panic attack to descend upon him.

Severus sank to his knees, his hands jutting forward to catch his balance. He could feel the heat rising high in his face, the trembling that was slowly beginning to work its way upward from the soles of his feet. Augusta's voice was suddenly in his head, as clear and stern and forceful as if she had been sitting directly beside him.

_A chair, Severus? You're going to let a popped seam reduce you to whatever this is_?

He buried his hands in the layer of burnt parchment covering the floor and forced his eyes shut. _It's not just a seam,_ he thought, trying to rationalize the episode. _It's not being able to fix this… How am I_…"How am I supposed to mend my life when I can't— "

"Mister Snape?"

The words died on his tongue, and Severus turned slowly to see the portrait floating in the shadows of the hall. The young woman looked ghostly in the frame, her eyes fixed on him intelligently though somewhat cautiously. The portrait floated forward steadily until it crossed the threshold of the sitting room. They stared at one another, unnerved and apprehensive before Adelaide finally spoke.

"Are you well?"

"Fine," he managed to articulate, not daring to look her in the face. His subconscious, all the while, was still entangled with the unexpected surge of panic.

"I beg your pardon," she pressed softly, "but you look the furthest thing from well at the moment."

Severus said nothing and kept his line of sight level with the top of the frame, certain he would die from the look of pity he would find in her eyes. For a few moments there was silence, except for the thumping of his pulse in his ears and the crackling of what wood remained in the firebox. _What the hell is wrong with you…_ he thought, watching the glow from the portrait encroach further toward him. _Pull yourself together_.

"Should I send for someone?" Adelaide asked after a while, and those five words had an effect on him similar to being doused with iced water.

"No!" His head snapped up, and he noticed Adelaide's curious gaze roaming over him. Severus started to stand slowly, as though he had just found himself face to face with a dangerous animal. Thankfully, the quaking in his legs had subsided a great deal; he could hide it easily enough, blame the unsteadiness that remained on his extended convalescence if need be.

Adelaide's expression hardened; the corners of her mouth drawing up in a thin, skeptical line. "Are you certain?"

"Yes," he answered in a sudden flash of irritation, and when the girl in the portrait did not respond he went on. "Please, I only need a minute." Severus gestured toward the mess that remained, in a last desperate attempt to draw her attention from him to the state of his sitting room. He lowered his head, concealing his face, and wiped away the anxious sweat that had formed on his brow.

Severus eyed the shovel and brush lying beside the chair, then shifted his gaze to the floating frame and saw that the girl's expression was grim. He picked up the wrought iron tools and began to sweep away pile of parchment without really concentrating on the task; he was waiting, dreading the onslaught of questions that were sure to follow her notice of the debris and disarray.

"Those are letters," she said at last, her voice becoming brittle.

He did not reply, but it would not have made a difference; she figured it out soon enough.

"Howlers—all of them—" Adelaide looked about the room, her eyes never lingering in the same spot for too long, as if she had accidentally glimpsed a part of him she had not been meant to see. "There must have been hundreds of them," she said, making a feckless attempt to hide her bewilderment. "But why?"

"This is the embodiment of nearly nine months of hatred," Severus said before he could stop the flow of words. He emptied the overflowing shovel into the firebox and set to working on another pile to keep from looking at her as he spoke. "Bitterness and resentment flows deep."

"I don't understand—"

"People always want someone to blame, don't they? People need a remedy, a solution. Anything to help them deal with their own guilt or loss. Someone has to take the fall, someone has to become the villain so that others can feel vindicated for what they've lost or whatever they did or did not do." Severus chucked another shovelful of debris into the firebox, disgruntled by the sudden soliloquy, then fell silent. Why was he telling her—a complete stranger—any of this?

"But you were cleared of all charges," Adelaide persisted, which told Severus she knew who she was dealing with after all. "You were even awarded an Order of Merlin. First Class."

"But I lived, Miss Harlowe," Severus snapped, banging the brush roughly against the shovel, as though to show his annoyance. "People vilify what they do not understand, and as a witch it shouldn't be hard for you to understand that unfortunate fact. The general public does not understand or know half of what I had to do, and those that do know don't care, because of what I did to see the farce to its end." He almost made mention of Skeeter's poison-penned book, but decided that would open far too many doors that he preferred to keep shut.

"That… That is ridiculous," she protested. It was not hard to tell she was grasping for something to say in retaliation, the look on her face said it all. "That isn't—"

"That is life," Severus interrupted, this time his irritation more subdued. He propped the shovel and brush on the tool rack and regarded the frame and the girl inside. He had said too much to her already, and he had let the situation arise in which she felt she was free to ask him questions about personal things that he had no intention of discussing with someone he trusted, let alone a stranger.

_I ought never to have indulged her prying_, Severus thought, and resolved right then, as she watched him intently with those ridiculously considerate blue eyes, that she need not think it could become a habit. "How is it that you're able to manipulate the frame?"

Adelaide seemed to be thrown by the sudden change of topic. She blinked several times, as though to clear her head and said, "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"The fact that you can make the portrait move about," Severus clarified, his tone accusatory. "I certainly didn't invite the thing in here."

Adelaide gave a thoughtful nod, taking the cutting remark in stride. "It just happens. I can think certain things, like moving across a room, and your frame, the one you see me in, responds accordingly. It's impressive magic," she added as somewhat of an afterthought, and grinned at him.

"It's an invasion of privacy," Severus answered, his voice flat and deliberate. He had meant for the words to sting, had hoped they would get the point across and save them both the awkwardness of keeping up with the charade.

Adelaide gave him a level look, which Severus found irritating and said, "I understand this situation is not to your liking, and if I have offended you in some way I apologize. However, you are not in this situation because of me, Mister Snape. I do wish you would give me a chance."

"I don't want to give you a chance. Don't you understand?" Severus rubbed at the side of his head as though he had developed an intense and unexpected migraine. "I may not be in this situation because of you, but I still have to deal with you despite my blistering desire for you to be elsewhere."

That shut her up, and Severus wasted very little time taking the opportunity to escape from her once more. He stalked off toward the kitchen, only casting a half-hearted, sideways glance in Adelaide's directions as he passed, and immediately wished he would have kept his eyes off of her.

The remark had cut a little too deeply it seemed, and her subsequent expression gave him a horrible chill. She looked on the verge of tears, her mouth hanging slightly ajar from the initial blow of his words. _It had to be done_, he told himself, though it did little to quell the growing feeling of shame in the pit of his stomach. No, only Firewhisky would see to that properly.

He went straight to the vintage bottle of Ogden's Old sitting on his liquor cabinet and took a rather impressive swig straight from the bottle. Severus knew he ought not to drink it, had even been advised against it during his extended stay at St. Mungo's, but he also knew nothing else would ease his agitation the same as Firewhisky.

Against his better judgment, he poured himself a mug - neat, the only way someone with even a modicum of self respect would drink something as pure as Ogden's Old. Just as the harsh, amber liquid touched his lips, however, Severus was startled by her voice coming from over his shoulder.

"Why do you do that to yourself," Adelaide asked without even the slightest attempt to hide her disapproval. "It's a vile, poisonous drink that turns even the most respectable men incorrigible."

Severus regarded the mug in his hand as though he were looking at it for the first time, then looked to the witch in the floating frame, whose blue eyes studied him with sharp seriousness. There were still faint traces of hurt on her face—the colour high in her cheeks and the glistening tear track she had not fully succeeded in wiping away— but he refused to think on any of it. He raised the glass to his lips to take another gulp, grimacing as the liquor scorched a burning trail down his throat and said, "Because there are things inside me that I need to kill."

He may have been on his way to a state of solid drunkenness, but Severus knew he had said too much the moment the whisky-soaked confession slipped his tongue. Still, he found he had very little energy to care. He was nothing to her, and she was even less to him.

"Mister Snape, please—"

"Leave me be," he said, the words a low hiss.

"If that is what you want." Adelaide looked at him for a moment, as if patiently waiting for him to reconsider what he had said. "Is that what you want?"

"Yes, I would like some peace and quiet."

"It will be quiet, but you won't find peace like this," she was quick to say, and Severus found himself searching for any hint of pity or judgment in her voice. That would have been the perfect escape, her harshness, her cynicism. Perhaps it was the alcohol and fatigue already toying with his perception, or perhaps she was simply the quintessential essence of patience—he could not really put a finger on the true culprit—but whatever the case, he found no such escape. Somewhere, buried deep down inside of him, where the rational side of his mind had gone to hide, Severus was sure there was truth to what she had said, but who was she to tell him that?

"I can't promise that I'll be able to solve all of your problems," she went on, skillfully ignoring the deep scathing noise she received in turn, "but I can promise you that you won't have to go at them alone."

There was a moment of cold silence before Severus drew a deep breath to clear his head. "And how do you intend to do that exactly? What could you possibly have to offer me? I am not some case to figure out, Miss Harlowe, despite what your insipidly dimwitted supervisor has led you to believe. And if you think for one moment that you will be more help than hindrance, then you may very well trump Zella Shrout in stupidity, which is a true feat in and of itself." Severus downed the Firewhisky, then slammed the empty coffee mug against the liquor cabinet with an emphatic smack. "Do us both a favour and leave me the fuck alone."

The lingering pause was suffocating, and for a moment, Adelaide's face twisted in a manner Severus found difficult to witness. He had seen it countless times in his tenure as a professor, even more times in his stint as a Death Eater. It was the grimace of pain that came from beating back an onslaught of angry tears.

"Very well," Adelaide answered in a biting, impersonal voice. "Have a pleasant evening, Mister Snape." Her image began to shrink and fade into nothingness. Blackness soon took over the center of the frame, and as Severus's portrait gave a tiny _ping, _sounding the deactivation of her connection, it fell from its suspended height to the floor.

The sound of it clattering across the hardwood was the sweetest he'd heard in a very long time.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: How on earth are there only twelve days until Christmas? If you lovely people are anything like me, you've waited until the last possible minute to make any preparations. I know these next few weeks will be absolute mayhem, so I thought I'd release the next chapter a touch early. I hope you enjoy! This story is for Thorned Huntress, cheerleader extraordinaire and kick-ass friend. Next update to come in a few weeks!<p>

**Public Service announcement:** _Hermione is coming, I promise. I know 20,000 words seems like a lot of words to read without any mention of her, but she is coming, and it is in the very next chapter as a matter of fact. I wanted to use the first few chapters to introduce Severus and his current situation. _

Also, to those of you who have been following along with _The Beginning of Truth_, I have a happy surprise coming in the next week or so. :)

As always reviews are welcomed and greatly appreciated!


End file.
